


Extended Metaphors

by Mechanical_Orange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, POV Second Person, eames is really bad at metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At ten P.M. you sit on your bed in your tan and teal hotel room.  Waiting.  The breath trapped in your lungs starts to burn as the clock ticks over to 10:01.  It’s so unlike your prize to be tardy.  And then your phone buzzes, just a burner, one to be tossed after tonight.  A single text appears on the screen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>It will never be that easy.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Extended Metaphors

You pick up the end of the spool; it’s tightly wound and bright, bright red. You pull it.  Hard.

That just makes the spool tighter.  The knot cinches and the end of the spool is tugged out of your slippery fingers.

Fine.

Sometimes you have to approach things from an angle.

You go in sideways, so sly, and you start picking at the thread closest to you.  But you’re gentle.  Ever so gentle.  You get somewhere; you get a little give.  But you get greedy.

And all your hard work is undone – you don’t touch the spool for a long time.

 

* * *

 

 

You miss it, but refuse to admit it.  And even you get jealous of the way your friend’s cat unrolls a ball of yarn like it’s nothing.

It _is_ nothing.  Really, you think, it’s nothing.  Just a mystery you’ll never solve.  The world is full of them – crop circles, the Nazca Lines, the pyramids, the solar system, massive galaxy-sucking black holes.

So what if you’ll never know what makes him tick, what makes him smile and laugh and sigh and pout.  So what if you’ll never know where he came from or where he buys his clothes, or where he sees himself in five years (with you?).  So what if you’ll never know what the fucking meaning of life is.  These are all just questions without any answers.

Your life is fine.  Good, fucking great, even.  You’re making money hand over fist and blowing it just as fast at the nearest casino (gambling den).  It’s all you need – you got money, friends, and a bed to sleep in.  Hell, you can even find someone to join you if you’re feeling lonely (you’re not lonely).  You’ve finally made peace with all the unknowable things in the universe and you’ve just lost about a million Kenyan Shillings on a bad bluff.  It’s not such a bad racket.

Until you see a familiar face.  And you just have to ask.  “Still working with Arthur, then?”

And that’s when you know you’re sunk.  Just like that you’re on a plane to Paris and your mind has already run through ten different scenarios in which you might possibly have a chance at unraveling your precious, well-dressed, unflappable little mystery.

You arrive ready for a fight, but you don’t quite get what you’re expecting.  There’s something different this time.  Is it the job?  The fresh new faces?  Or the desperation in their eyes? 

It’s no skin off your back, not really, if you fail.  You’re not running from anything and you have three different passports in your bag just waiting to be used.  So it shouldn’t matter – it _doesn’t_ matter – to you if the mood’s a little somber.  You’ve come ready to play.

You open with a nudge.  He counters with a dirty look. 

Showing off.  Being clever.  You are always so good at this part, at the lure, the hook.  It’s the reeling in that throws you for a loop. 

He hasn’t smiled at you once.  You’ve been counting.  But there’s still time.  And you hope you can capitalize on it.

You’ve been flirting again.  You know it doesn’t work, but you don’t care.  Maybe it’s the stress of the clusterfuck of a job this has become that has you resorting to your default.

_Darling._

You know it’s a lost cause.  But you do it anyway.  And soon enough you’re lying on the floor of someone’s dream and he’s smiling at you.  Smiling, smiling…

You can feel the strings getting looser.

You’re meant to wake in a well-timed avalanche but you don’t.  It gives you some time to think, and you consider your options.  At this point, it’s only curiosity driving you, and the satisfaction of knowing you did this.  You’ve created something and the most satisfying part is that no one will ever know.

When you blink awake in the first class cabin of an airplane, you can still see the pinwheel spinning in your mind’s eye, and you know the mark must see it too.  You’ve won.  It’s time to collect your prize.

You brush past him in the bowels of the LAX baggage claim, leaving behind a note in his pocket.

A time.  A place.  An unspoken arrangement.

You’re sure now; you feel the threads so loose in your hands and you can hardly keep still to untangle them all.  But there’ll be time for that.  There’ll be time for that quite soon.

Your prize is on its way.

At ten P.M. you sit on your bed in your tan and teal hotel room.  Waiting.  The breath trapped in your lungs starts to burn as the clock ticks over to 10:01.  It’s so unlike your prize to be tardy.  And then your phone buzzes, just a burner, one to be tossed after tonight.  A single text appears on the screen.

_It will never be that easy._

The phone shatters against the wall.  Well.  You were going to destroy it anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

You end up in Tegucigalpa on a lark.  It’s hot and humid and violent and perfect for you in every way.  Your Spanish is shit, but it doesn’t matter.  You gamble; you evade a mugging or two.  You eat Pan de Coco by the basketful. 

Another month sees you in Belfast; you pick up a job there – run of the mill, quick cash, and endless nights at the pub.  And all the lager and ale and cider in Northern Ireland can’t stop you thinking about –

You wake up on a hard floor in a dark flat somewhere on the seedier side of town.  You know it’s not your hotel room because this place has that lived-in sort of feel.  Scuffed floors, peeling paint, the unmistakable smell of dinners past. 

“You awake, mate?”  A man leans over you and addresses you far too loudly.

You can only groan.  “Only me girl’s coming over soon and she won’t like to see me with another bloke.”

He looks at you, an appeal for understanding, and you sigh.  “S’alright,” you mumble as you head out the door.  You take one last glimpse of the man before you go – slim, dark-haired – and you pretend this never happened.

Your hotel room is the same as you left it – almost.

There’s an unsolvable mystery sitting on the bed.

“Christ, I’m still drunk,” you mumble.  You collapse on the bed next to what could only be a very vivid hallucination.  You try to remember the last time you ate something; you’ve heard hunger can do things to a person.

“Eames,” the hallucination says.  “You’re a goddamn mess.”

“You think room service can do a proper fry-up?” you ask the inoffensively patterned comforter.  You can’t look at your hallucination without thinking of a broken cell phone on a hotel floor.

“What’s a fry-up?”

You don’t answer.  You’ve already fallen asleep.

You hear the low murmur of conversation in the background and wonder when it was that you turned the TV on.  There’s a greasy smell in the air – bacon.  So you did order that fry-up after all.  But when did you let room service in?

“You’re pathetic.”

“Huh?”  The TV is talking to you.  You should never drink at a Belfast pub ever again.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?  Christ, Eames, you’re not even subtle.”

“Arthur?” It’s tentative, your question.  But you feel like it needs to be asked.

“Jesus Christ.”  A strong hand grabs your shoulder and turns you onto your back.  It holds you there, and a face hovers over yours – slim, dark-haired, frowning.

“I thought you were a drunk hallucination.”

“I’m not.”  He’s still frowning. 

“Oh.”  It’s not that you’re not happy to see him, but the truth is, you’re really _not_ happy to see him.  Not right now.  Not like this.

“I had a different idea in mind for our clandestine hotel rendezvous.”

“I ordered you a fry-up, whatever it is.”

“Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you here?”

He sighs.  He looks… well, he looks like you do after a particularly disappointing poker hand.  Put-out.  “I was nearby,” he says.  “I got a tip that Fischer might be onto us.”

“What’s it matter?” you groan.  “He’s already started selling off bits of Fischer-Morrow.  I heard Saito’s been using shell companies to buy them all up.”

“They know your face, Eames,” Arthurs says quietly.  “You worked for Browning.”

You shrug.  Lots of people know your face.  “Where’s that bacon?” you ask.  “I’m starving.”

Arthur doesn’t stay to watch you eat.  As you start in on the beans, he puts on his suit coat, straightens his tie, and leaves.  He tells you he has to go check on Cobb.  And all you can think is how you bet Los Angeles is nice this time of year (you’re not very good at winning bets).

A couple hours later you’re standing under a stream of scalding hot water and wondering how you can be so dense.

The number you call is disconnected, and so is the other one.  The email you send bounces back to you within seconds, and you’ve seriously considered carrier pigeon, but you’re fairly certain Arthur has precautions against those too.

Remember that spool?  You’ll never find a loose piece of thread again.

 

* * *

 

 

In Macau you lose millions.

In São Paulo you lose track of time.

In Cairo you lose hope.

You’re in Paris now, not quite sure how you got there.

But you’re here and the neighborhood looks too familiar to be a coincidence.  You turn a corner, and there’s a warehouse – the warehouse.  Still abandoned and inconspicuous.  Just like you remember.  You toy with the idea of going inside, but it’s foolish.  Bad enough that apparently Fischer is on the hunt for dream thieves, but how desperate are you that you’re looking to relive a few memories in an old warehouse?

You’re not that desperate.  No, you’re not desperate at all.  So you turn around and head for a café, hoping espresso and croissants can shake you out of your Arthur-induced stupor.

You sit at a table near the window.  People watching is good for your process; you catch a woman who has a unique way of swaying her hips when she walks.  You file it for later. 

Your waiter walks by and deposits another cup of espresso on your table.  “From the gentleman,” he says before departing. 

You look around for the gentleman in question, the hair prickling at the back of your neck.  In reality it could be any number of gentlemen, you know many (you know many _well)_.  But you only know one who would find you in a café in Paris and send you another cup of espresso even though he knows you only drink it to look like a pretentious expat. 

“You look like a pretentious expat,” Arthur says, as he takes the seat across from you. 

“Thank you, Arthur.”

You both sit in silence, sipping your drinks. 

“How’s Cobb?”

“Eames.”

“What?”

He looks at you with steady brown eyes, but his index finger runs up and down the handle of his cup – and you can’t quite tell if it’s a very Arthur-specific sort of nervous tic, or a very Arthur-specific sort of sensual come-on. 

“Christ, Arthur, you’re fucking inscrutable, you are.”

Arthur emits a very small sigh.  “Fischer’s not really onto us.  At least not that I’ve heard anyway.  And I have very good sources.”  He looks down at his drink.  “I haven’t seen Cobb since we left LAX.  But I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I don’t care about Cobb,” you say. 

“You asked.”

“I only asked because you told me you were going to see him.”

“I didn’t.”

“So what have you been doing, Arthur?  Because, as you can see, I’ve been doing fuck all.”

Arthur gives you barest hint of a smile, the kind of smile you tell yourself you don’t find yourself pining over when you lay awake at night. 

“I watched you lose all your money in Macau,” Arthur says.

“You’ve been following me?  I’m flattered.”  You manage to keep your voice steady as your heart jumps.  Because you are flattered.  But – “I’m not Cobb; you don’t need to babysit me.”

“I didn’t babysit Cobb.  And I’m not babysitting you,” he says.  “But I thought you liked this game.”

“What game?” you ask him.  “The only game I’ve been playing lately is Baccarat.” 

Arthur looks at you, exasperated.  He knows how terrible you are at Baccarat.  “I’m not joking, Eames.”

“Neither am I, Arthur.  I honestly have no fucking clue what you’re on about.”

“I was going to meet you at the hotel in L.A., but I thought that was too easy.  That you must be playing some kind of game, because you’re not easy.”

“Darling, I hate to break it to you, but you will have a hard time finding anyone easier.”

“That’s not what I mean, Eames.”

“Well please enlighten me.”

“I thought you were only doing this because you liked it.”

“Liked what?”

“The…” Arthur looks at you as if you should be able to finish his sentence.  “Why else would you needle me like you do?  I thought you liked it.”

“Do you like it?”

“I like you.”

And that’s it.  This must be a dream, because this makes no sense.  You run through your check list: your totem’s in your pocket, you can remember how you got here, you can’t will yourself into another body.  It’s real.  And Arthur’s just admitted that he likes you.

“Fuck me.”

“I already tried.  But you were more interested in breakfast.”  Arthur stands.  “I’m sorry Eames,” he says.  “I don’t want to play the game anymore.”

“It’s not a game!”  Oh Christ, you really don’t want to get in an argument in a café full of Parisians.  “Please sit down.  I think we are operating on a fundamental misunderstanding.”  You wait until Arthur settles once again in his chair before you continue.  “Look, I’m sorry.  I’m a prat, a ten-year-old boy who likes to pull on your pigtails to get your attention.  Because I love your attention, Arthur, good or bad, it’s all I want.  But you never seemed interested in me.  And before you say anything else, I am sorry about Belfast, but I was very drunk, and you were sitting on my bed like some goddamned enigma and I’m sorry that I wanted bacon more than I wanted you.”

He looks at you for a moment; he might be smiling but you can really never tell.  You just want him to say something, anything.  You want him to put this whole cat and mouse game to rest; you want to tug on that thread the way you’ve been dying to, to finally unravel him, because you think you’re pretty damn close.  Just another moment and your torment can finally end. 

“I’ll see you soon, Eames.”  And he leaves.  He just… leaves.  You sit at the table staring at his empty chair until your espresso is cold and he’s disappeared behind waves of people flowing down the avenue.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” you mutter. You shoot up from your seat, throw a few euro on the table and storm out.

Arthur is _not_ winning this round, not again. He will not dance away from you this time. He will not unravel for you, only to curl back up on himself tighter than before.

You push your way through the crowded streets, hoping to catch Arthur before he disappears into the ether for months with nary a cryptic email as reassurance that he’s still alive. You turn the corner where you lost sight of him from the café. He’s not there. Honestly, you should’ve known better than to expect him to just be standing there waiting for you.

The street is mostly empty; it’s clearly a place meant for locals, not tourists. Flats built on top of small shops line the sidewalk and there’s a restaurant or two preparing for dinner. It’s hushed as most things are in that late afternoon lull before evening sets in. You know Arthur is long gone by now; you sat at that café feeling sorry for yourself for too long. You really should stop blaming Arthur for your melancholy, you know you only bring it on yourself.

You pass by a tiny antique shop; there’s an armoire inside that reminds you somewhat of Arthur. There’s a lock on it.

And then you’re being thrown backward against a brick wall; you get your fists up, ready for a fight, even though it’s been far too long since you’ve had to fight a man topside.

“You took forever.”

“Arthur?” And sure enough his dark brown eyes are staring right at you and his fists are curled into your lapels. “What-where did you come from?”

“I live here,” he says.

“In the antique shop?” you ask, because very little of anything Arthur is saying is making sense to you.

“Above it,” he replies.

“Since when?”

“Eames.”

“What?”

And Arthur kisses you. Hard. On the mouth. With tongue.

“Arthur,” you squeal.

“Shut up, Eames.”

Perhaps the wait has made it sweeter, more satisfactory, but (metaphorically speaking) you spend all night wrapped up in him and no matter how much you pull and twist and turn, Arthur has made it very clear he will never, ever untangle you.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
